Captured
by Zerabell Blackborn
Summary: She was left with the enemy, a planner turned pawn now prisoner and she might have fallen into their trap and their torturous hands, but they were fools still. OneShot, Hermione-centric .


A/N: Taken from a Death Eater Challenge over at GrangerEnchanted(dot)com, the prompt was 'what really should have happened at Malfoy Manor.' No pairing.

Beta'd by: Riss and Purple Fuzzi Wumps; all remaining mistakes are my own.

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_Do you know what the definition of a hero is? Someone who gets other people killed. (Zoe - _Serenity_)_

**Capture**

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She really needed to sit down. That chair, horribly ornate and ancient, would be perfect. Or the floor. Yes, the floor looked better; closer. Hard, dark, cold wood that was just laying there and it would only take a second or two to embrace its quiet invitation.

But that would make her look weak, and if she wasn't going to bow down on bended knee before the monster, she wasn't about to collapse into unconsciousness. Even if it sounded good. Better than a bubble bath, though she told them, she wouldn't pass one up as long as there weren't kisplisers in the vicinity. It was Luna's parting. That warning. And really, she quite disagreed with the Ravenclaw, it would be terribly rude to watch.

But then it didn't seem to matter as they suddenly remembered they were wizards and she was on the floor anyway.

Magical current electrified nerve endings and short-circuited what her Aunt's tenth chapter of Anatomy text jokingly called the 'gatekeepers'. There was no off switch, no damming of the pain. Just twitching and flailing, crying and screaming on a bloodied floor. It wasn't shouting or cursing they wanted, and so when breathing became possible again she listed the alchemic process to make gold from silver. With ingredients that would ensure the cauldron would do much worse than melt. Quicker than double potions under Neville Longbottom's attention. At a time and phase of the earth's rotation that would ensure the volatile combination erupted with a light display better witnessed from the next town, or a distant hill, or several…

The floor's really nice. Solid. Sort of friendly even. And she wonders for a moment if she should tell them that much more of this and she was sure her body would defy history and documentation and liquefy. A puddle of Hermione-goo that would slip through their grasp, but surely the next floor would be just as comfortable a place for interrogation as this one. Maybe she'd be able to see Harry and Ron, but wait, no had they escaped and dark robes multiplied.

The next time she opens her mouth with something other than a terrifyingly inhuman wail, it's to laugh. A bit hysterically she thinks, but that was acceptable. She would much rather seem mad than defeated, though she's that as well. They have her after all, and she doubted a rescue would come in the next few moments. Maybe next week, Tuesday's good. Monday might be better though.

When she thinks to ask the time- random fleeting thoughts had her wondering if a new day had started, and thank you, yes there were other places to be- Bellatrix flicks her wand and her body has trouble deciding if the fetal position or spread eagle, arms wide and arched on the ground, had better merit.

It probably was a Bad Thing to have the Lestrange woman appear as one of the saner occupants in a gathering for any length of time. For surly Bellatrix achieved at least an hour of lucid, cognitive appearance through her drawn blathering at wand's end. But really, all things considered, she didn't feel too bad about it. Perhaps she would move onto the theory of biomechanics and how it could be used to possibly alter one's genetic makeup, or bring forth the parallels of Isaac Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics and, say… the evolution of dictatorship from a revolutionist's perspective. They were both terribly fascinating, she told them smiling to the high ceiling, that looked more breath-of-spring than morning-mint.

She might have fallen into their trap and their torturous hands, but they were fools still. They wouldn't find it, not from her. Not the location. Nor what protective spells were placed on it. Or who had it. Entirely possible she couldn't tell them what 'it' was, even if they waited for the fog of too many crucios to lift. She didn't know, couldn't remember after a bout of what she thinks might be a self-inflicted obliviate. Shame really, they were only keeping her alive for information, and she couldn't even give it to them. Not that she would, both having a choice before capture and following through with her decision. Whatever it was, apparently she was willing to sacrifice her life for its survival.

Perhaps they were interested in what psychologists say about masks instead. She might not have the references on her, in her other pair of pants you understand, but she was sure she could remember several key facts and elaborate from there. Bring up the question of who they were trying to deceive. Or how it was through anonymity they found a position of power. Maybe they would like to hear about the many types of masks and what they symbolized in different cultures. Gallows's humor, and hang men, and why did they chose the title "Death Eater" and "Inner Circle" and not "Order of the Phoenix" because it could have been the other way around.

But they don't seem too keen on such talk, though several feet shifted in their positions as if uncomfortable. How long do these things take, because seriously, shouldn't she be pushing up the daisies, or providing nutritious food for flobberworms? They should be minced, not chopped in most cases, she starts to inform them, but stops to laugh and tells them to 'ask Snape' instead. He was the Master here after all, and the laughter turns manic, but this time it's because she used a word 'snake-face' wanted directed at him, and not one of his witless followers.

Though she probably shouldn't have said that about Severus, because he's suddenly there. Looming above her, dressed in uniform. It was his chin that gave it away. Well, if she was being honest with herself, and them by default, of something that must be a weaker, potion-less, wanded version of Veritaserum, it was his lips. Their color and shape and form, because she grew up with that sneer and those eyes, and had rarely seen him out of Death-Eater-Black. So really, the mask was hiding nothing she needed to identify the man. Who did they think they were fooling again?

But then she thought of the paranoia, and the second-guessing of loyalties, and the increasing amount of missions gone bad, and knew it was working because there had to be a spy. A spy in the Order. Spys they could and couldn't identify.

'A spy, a spy, my kingdom for a spy,' she sang and laughed at Snape. She supposed he reacted as he normally would when laughed at, though he should try it sometime because laughing with the stoic bat would be much better, but did he really have to push that hard? She had just gained her footing, too. Her new position might not be so bad though; sure, her arm was being held at an angle that it really shouldn't, but at least there was more to see than feet and hemlines. She saw hair and eyes and my, what big teeth you have.

They were, she was sure, all the better to eat her with. Oh goody. Now she was werewolf property. It wasn't an improvement from being under Lestrange's, or Dolohov's, wand but at least it meant something was happening. Finally. Old Voldie could really talk when he had an audience and she hoped Harry caught him with an avada while monologueing.

'Yes, yes, I'm moving,' she wanted to snap back with an equally sharp flavor, but there was too much blood in her mouth, and she really was too tired for caring about brash Gryffindor appearances. How did all those heroes and heroines in pop culture find time to throw witty clips and catch phrases while fighting their arch nemesis? But then she was a side-kick, wasn't she, so maybe that explained it.

She tried to avoid Greyback's hand and, oh gods, move back, move away but it was too late. Always too late, it seemed. Malfoy Manor had apparated into a darkness that looked suspiciously like the Forbidden Forrest but probably far, far away. And that was it, ownership changed. Without a trade-in.

Had he paid a price? Wretched mongrel; she hoped it had been high and taken from his flesh. Or pelt. Maybe, if she survived this and life was rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, she would ask for her very own wolf-skin rug. It would be a wonderful welcome mat; she'd wipe her feet on it every evening coming home from a hard days' work. Remus would just have to get used to it. He wouldn't mind too much, would he? After all he held a grudge against his sire for far longer than she ever thought to.

If she survived. But no, she would. Just out of spite. This loudmouth, know-it-all, mudblood would stand at the end of this war and dance on several graves. Without speaking. Last thing she wanted was to activate some ancient long lost ritual to bring back the dead. Again.

How many times had Riddle managed that feat? That's why Death Eater might not have been such a great name; phoenixes were eternal, and mythologically immortal in a way Voldemort's crew would never be. Either they ascribed to the notion of acquiring an emery's magic though cannibalism or they were able to defy the grim reaper. It made them look quite foolish with their fear of the inevitable, really, while Dumbledore stood as a symbol of renewing life. Then again, he was murdered, so maybe her line of thinking had a few flaws. Beyond the obvious that is, and she wondered if Harry and Ron would visit her when Neville was about with his parents. St. Mungo's might not be a cheery place, but there were worse locations of course and…

'And oh, I take it these are friends of yours? Now hey, there's no need for that!' But she wasn't really using her hands anyway and her legs couldn't hold her own weight for some time now. She wondered if this was how it felt to be old, like Dumbledore old. He had talked to her about how he was a barometer and could feel the change in the air. Right before he died. She was almost positive it had double meaning then, knew it as a certainty now.

She'd ask him yet, because this was the magical world and there was his painting looming behind McGonagall's not quite so newly appointed desk. Maybe he wasn't as dead as believed for the figure hadn't moved since the unveiling. Perhaps he was merely waiting for some final battle to bring in the troops, Gandalf the White neé Grey style. Opportune moment and battle strategy and…

'Hey, can't we think about this?'

She probably should have guessed their answer.

|end


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